Gathering Storm

“Maybe Sharii decided he didn’t have anything more to lose. He stayed low, out of sight in Europe, finally reached London. It was a Mossad agent who spotted him there. Sharon connected the information Abe Keen sent to us with Sharii’s knowledge. Mossad agreed to let Sharon follow through with us because we’ve worked with him before. Mutual needs, really,” Price said. “One more thing. Khariza still has plenty of sympathizers out there. People who agree with his aims. Groups who want us to suffer. They’ll give him help with what money and equipment they can, and they’ll point him in the direction of anyone who he wants to get his hands on.”

“Thing is, you’re right,” Blancanales agreed. “There’s a whole world of help out there for someone like Khariza.”

“They’ll be crawling out of the bloody woodwork,” McCarter said. “Sad thing is, we’ll have people from our own countries ready to help, too.”

“They have their beliefs as much as we do, David.”

McCarter glanced at Brognola. “Don’t I know it. All I’m saying is it makes it harder for us to get to the right people.”

“Aaron has got some more intel for you,” Brognola said. “It should give you background on the missions you’ll be assigned once he’s through. Barbara has logistic details and backgrounds for cover identities. This is up and running, people. The way things are accelerating, we have to start in top gear. It’s obvious the opposition is operating in a number of different areas, so we have to cover what we can. We’re going into this with minimal information. You know my feelings on that, but the President has the bit in his teeth and I can understand his motives. Situations can change fast, and if we don’t stay on top we could be too late if the main event comes out of left field. I know this is throwing you in without much background. It means you’re going to have some location changes. Can’t be helped. Let’s find out what Khariza is up to. Go for anything that might give us answers. The President has given this to us because he knows we’ll locate and terminate without interagency rivalry or internal agendas getting in the way.”

“Any contact with other agencies as a matter of interest?” Calvin James asked. “We’ve had problems before from them because they don’t know us and we don’t know them.”

“If anything gets in the way, you pass it to me. I’ll field it and get the President to step in.”

“Hal, with due respect, that’s a crock,” Lyons said tersely. “We end up in a face-off with some agency rule-book geek, there isn’t much chance for time-out so we can call home and get clearance.”

Brognola held up his hands in surrender. “You got me there, Carl. In the field you have to call whatever you feel is the right choice. If there’s no time and it’s a case of being compromised, then do what you have to. It comes down to the choice about which is the priority decision. Let’s call this what it is, guys. We are in a war situation. The ex-regime groups are out to do two things. Inflict as much pain and suffering as they can on specified Western targets and stir up trouble in the Middle East. At the back of all this are the attempts to get hold of power in Iraq. Do I have to spell out the end results if we don’t go out and stop it?”

Kurtzman picked up a printed sheet. “This is an extract from one of the Intelligence Analysis think tanks. Something to bear in mind. ‘Ex Ba’ath Party members will seek out their stolen money so they can rearm themselves. Part of their strategy will be to move into organized crime in order to reestablish themselves. It has to be remembered that these people were used to the best of everything and will want to retain their status. But they will also do what they can to infiltrate the Iraqi ruling party to destabilize it and get some control over the government. They will attempt to stir up trouble between all the various classes within Iraq society. Their ultimate aim will be to create unrest. Mistrust. A sense of loss of national identity.”’

Lyons leaned back in his seat. His question had been answered. It was the same for all of them. In an ongoing tactical situation, where balances had to be weighed, there were times when choices to be made might not look so clean-cut in the light of day. There was no easy way around that kind of dilemma. A man had to deal his hand and live with the consequences.

“Initial missions,” Price said to break the contemplative silence. “Able, you need to follow up these mainland threats. Pick up where Phoenix left off. Nuevo Laredo. Your contact in there is Tomas Barranca. If there’s any talk about these arms deals Phoenix hit on, Barranca is your man.” She handed over files for the team to study.

“Aaron,” she said.

Kurtzman brought images and data on-screen. “Tomas Barranca. This is the house he rents on the Nuevo Laredo outskirts. His car. This is the cantina he frequents. He’s pretty friendly with the guy who owns the place. That’s him.”

“Who does this guy work for?” Blancanales asked.

“You could call him a freelance,” Price said. “In the past he’s had associations with the CIA. Did some good work for the DEA in tandem with the Mexican drug squads. Lately he’s been doing fieldwork for Justice. His name came up when Leo handed over those photos of Khariza.”

“Sounds a risky way to earn a living,” Schwarz said. “How does he do it?”

“Simple,” Price said. “He’s careful.”

While Able Team worked on the research Kurtzman had collated, Phoenix Force took their missions on board.

“I don’t like splitting you guys,” Price admitted, “but we’ve got too much ground to cover. Gary, Rafe, Cal—Italian Riviera. San Remo to be exact. See if you can get a line on Khariza and his people. Check on the villa where Abe Keen spotted them. We have to start somewhere. That’s as good a place as any. See if they’re still in the area. Everything current we have on Khariza and his buddies from the old regime is here in these files.

“David, you and T.J. are booked for London. You’ll meet with Ben Sharon and he’ll brief you about Sharii. Right now that’s all I can give you. Sharon says the guy is terrified of Khariza’s people finding him.”

“Not the wisest choice of places to hide out then,” McCarter observed. “There are a bloody lot of Iraqi expats living in London, as well as the illegal visitors. Sooner we get there, the better.”

“Get your stuff together,” Price said. “You’ll be going home courtesy of the U.S. government’s own airline.”

McCarter groaned. “U.S. Airlift Command again? Christ, have you ever eaten the bloody stuff they serve on those flights?”

Hawkins grinned at the Briton’s grumbling. “Cheer up, old fruit,” he said in mock English. “Let’s get you to Blighty and you can ’ave a plate of fish and chips down the Old Kent Road.”

McCarter glared at the younger Phoenix Force commando. “T.J., don’t you ever do that again. If I even thought I sounded like that I’d go and join Bin Laden in a bloody Afghan cave and never show my face again.”

In the background Lyons’s dry tones were heard. “Does he mean it?”

“We live in hope,” Blancanales replied.

“Okay, people, listen up,” Kurtzman said. “No moving out until we go through the rest of my background data. I managed to locate another batch of photographs showing more of Khariza’s Iraqi buddies. They’ll come in handy if you come up against them. Always helps to know the players.”

There were groans all around.

“Somebody give me a tranquilizer,” Blancanales said.

Kurtzman beamed at them. “That’s what I like to hear. Enthusiasm. Now somebody bring me some of my coffee. I wouldn’t want to dry up halfway through.”

CHAPTER THREE

Aboard the Petra

“So, my friend, are matters progressing as you wish?”

Razan Khariza raised his head from its contemplative position on his chest and studied the speaker. His host. His lifelong ally.

Radic Zehlivic, an Albanian Muslim, stood in the middle of the luxurious saloon of the oceangoing motor vessel Petra. Zehlivic was a multimillionaire. He had made his fortune over the years from astute playing on the world stock markets. He was a man who took great chances, investing in risky markets that had paid him back handsomely. Any money made was plowed back into further dealings and Zehlivic’s fortune had grown and expanded. He had investments in property, land, in oil and ship building. He played the Western world at its own game, using wealth and an inborn intuition to manipulate the financial game for his own gain. He had percentage holdings in innumerable companies across the globe and was respected within the financial and business communities. Yet his name seldom made the headlines. He was as reclusive as he was smart. He stayed true to his faith, doing little to advertise his wealth beyond his close circle of friends, using his money to fund those who were working against the West. There were few people he trusted. Oddly, despite the man’s reputation both inside and out of Iraq, one of his trusted circle was Razan Khariza.

Zehlivic’s mother had died giving birth to him, and his late father had been a clever and industrious man who had made his money from property dealings in his own country. His talent for turning quick, profitable deals had also made him enemies. In the end he had transferred his money to London, moving himself and his son there, where he had restarted his business operations. The British had been easy to manipulate and no one ever knew the duplicitous methods Zehlivic Senior used to work his deals.

Father and son lived in a country house in Buckinghamshire, just outside a small village. Zehlivic Junior still owned the house and used it often on his visits to the U.K.

He had met Razan Khariza at the private school they had attended in England. In fact they had spent much of their youth in the country, and though their paths went in different directions in their early twenties, each had kept in touch with the other, Radic’s admiration and devotion to his Iraqi friend becoming ever stronger.

In the tumult of the military action that had deposed Saddam Hussein and had seen the total dispersion of his regime’s high-echelon members, Khariza might have died or been captured if it hadn’t been for the assistance he’d received from his friend. A telephone call from Zehlivic had offered help during Khariza’s darkest hour.

Through Zehlivic’s chain of contacts, his knowledge of the country and a considerable outlay of money, Khariza had been spirited out of Iraq just ahead of the attack that hit Tikrit. A body had been substituted for Khariza, dressed in his uniform and carrying identity papers and personal belongings. When the local party headquarters was hit during a running battle, the body was deliberately mutilated with a grenade and then taken to a local hospital where the medical examiner, bought and paid for by Zehlivic, carried out an autopsy, making sure that all files and details matched the dead man identified as Razan Khariza. Members of the fedayeen were never fingerprinted or had medical details revealed during the regime, so there was nothing for the Coalition forces to match to. All they received was the formal declaration and postmortem photographs of Khariza’s badly mutilated body.

Though Khariza had been an important functionary within the regime, his death was accepted as a minor victory within a larger canvas. He was listed as dead and as he had no family to claim him, the body was handed over to the hospital for interment. It was, in fact, quickly cremated and the ashes scattered.

The doctor who had performed the autopsy had prepared to leave Tikrit himself once the formalities were over. With his few belongings packed along with the extremely large amount of cash he had been paid, the doctor had been picked up by some of Zehlivic’s people and driven away late at night. He was never seen again. As soon as the car he was in reached a safe distance from Tikrit, it stopped and the doctor was taken out. He was shot twice in the back of the head and his body buried. The car drove on, taking away the doctor’s luggage, along with the money. The body was never found.

Razan Khariza, out of Iraq, went into hiding, courtesy of his friend Zehlivic. He remained in obscurity for as long as it took for the hostilities to cease and Iraqi reconstruction to start. When other members of the late regime began to surface, and Khariza heard of their survival, he began to contact them. They, glad to find out he was alive, rallied to his call. They needed someone with his leadership qualities to ferment their plans for a return to Iraq.

In their eyes, America and its allies might have won the initial engagement. What they didn’t realize was the true fact that the war was far from over. In truth, for the fedayeen, it had only just begun.

They wanted their country back as it had been before, with control in the hands of the Ba’ath Party.

So they began to organize resistance, to create diversions that would confuse the enemy and allow the fedayeen time to get their own people into place. They would locate the immense hoards of cash that had been sent out of the country and placed in secret accounts. As soon as that money was in their hands, they could buy any weapons they needed to mount major offences.

That, however, seemed to be a stumbling block at the present time.